Chapter Text
When Emily wakes up, it isn't to the sound of Demane breathing next to her or the rumbling wheezes of Kulingile in his pavilion next door.
She wakes up to the pattering of feet, the whispers of people scurrying around, the tugging of trousers on, and the muttering about something exciting.
“What's goin’ on?” Emily manages, shifting deeper in the oddly itchy blankets, before her eyes fly wide open.
That isn't her voice.
She blinks up at the ceiling, low and crooked, smudged with pale spots of smoke from a fire gone wrong, and throws back her covers, only just holding in a scream as she sits up straight.
“There's a weird new dragon,” Sylvia says, tugging her boots on and doing up her laces. Emily stares at the nine-year-old, who, last she knew, had been dead since year six, and doesn't move.
“You shouldn't say such things,” Caroline murmurs, even as she hastily buttons her shirt, her braid already loose as though she's been scrambling across the ropes already today. There is no sign of the ice-filled looks Emily has been subject to since Laurence committed treason as their eyes meet. “Someone says he's quite fancy, for a Captain.”
Laurence, Emily realizes slowly, feeling as if she's going quite mad. They're talking about Laurence.
She rises, methodically doing up the standard outfit, even though it's been years—or has it, she wonders, her whole being aching at the thought, was it all just some fantastical dream?—and follows the others out of their hall, into the main mess.
Inside the hall, men are laughing, groups of them muttering together, and she sees ghosts of people long since dead everywhere she looks.
She's breathing, but only just, by the time she breaks away from the group and darts out for the pastures.
She thinks back to where Laurence had landed, where Temeraire would be initially, and discards it. If she's right—if she's not alone—they won't be in the main landing zone; they'll be out of sight for at least a moment. So instead of veering towards the loud voices and the crunch of boots she can hear, she scurries along the low stone wall that follows the winding gravel path towards one of the pastures that had been turned into a graveyard.
She can hear new voices, low and quick, and pauses ever so slightly at the sight of Laurence, Temeraire, and Granby, standing alone in the field that she had last seen full of memorials. How empty it seems now, with just the three lonesome figures in the mist rising from the moors.
Temeraire glances at her, his eyes narrowing, and lordy, she'd forgotten how small he was in the beginning, without his ruff.
The two men pause in their quiet conversation and turn, following Temeraire's gaze.
She steps away from the wall, her feet light on the gravel, and drifts closer, unsure of her welcome as none of them say anything.
“Temeraire?” she murmurs, drinking in the sight of their faces. If she can't have them as she remembers, she will still have them, she consoles herself. She will persist as she did the first time, until she is assigned to Temeraire's crew. “Admiral?”
Laurence scrubs a hand over his face, looking almost as undone as that awful winter, only with joy. It staggers her, for a moment, that it's because of her.
“Miss Roland,” he says, his tone full of welcome, and Emily can't help it, uncaring of respectability, as she throws herself forward, letting him catch her as he always has.
“Another one then,” Granby mutters, frowning. She can't take it too personally, not when the world has reshaped into such strange dimensions, and not when she can see the fondness in his face when he looks at her. “And you remember all of it?”
Emily pulls back, wiping at her eyes. She hasn't felt this unmoored emotionally since she asked Laurence to walk her down the aisle.
“Last I remember, Captain, it was 1818, and I was going to bed,” she says, before stilling. “Sipho was due to visit, and Demane was awfully excited.”
Temeraire lowers his head, and Emily doesn't hesitate to fling herself at him either, pressing a kiss to the smooth scales beneath his luminous eye. “And you, Temeraire? You remember?”
“I do,” Temeraire rumbles, sounding pleased at the affection, as she pulls back with a final pet. His eyes are much the same as always, but still, there’s a hesitancy she’s unsure of, which adds to her nerves. “I am quite worried about what this means for the outcome of the war, for how do we know who else remembers?”
There's a pause, Emily pulling back as the potential begins to hit her. How do they know who has remembered?
“Will we assemble the same crew?” Granby asks, stamping his feet in an attempt to warm up in the cool morning air. “And, I am a Captain no longer,” he murmurs, looking sad and awful, and Emily is caught round the middle with the thought of Iskierka. “Though I'm mighty pleased to not be the only one who has such wretched memories. But still—how are we going to explain any of this away?”
Emily blinks at him, before remembering that she is a child now, and cannot just forge her own way as she has been the past few years.
“For now,” Laurence says quietly, leaning against Temeraire and stroking his nose. “We will operate under the assumption that no one—”
The muffled sounds of shouting interrupt his words, and Emily knows she isn't imagining the way Temeraire stiffens. She inches closer, tucking herself in between his arm and Laurence, as Granby straightens up, his hand drifting towards his belt, where his pistol from Iskierka would have rested, before he remembers himself.
“Where is he?” someone shouts in the distance, the first clear voice Emily has made out. “I have direct orders, and I will not see this—”
“Captain?” Granby murmurs, and Emily curses the fact that she's not who she was, that people won't know the things she's seen, won't know the blood that stains her hands. She would die for Laurence, would die for Temeraire, and she's damned if they're going anywhere without her now.
“Wait,” Laurence cautions, as someone peers down their way and gives a shout, a whole cascade of men thundering their way. “Let us see to this ruckus and go from there.”
“If these men mean to take you away,” Temeraire rumbles, low and angry, and as young as he is, she can hear the Divine Wind brewing in the back of his throat. “I shall take the utmost issue.”
“Me too,” Emily adds, even as she shrinks back against Temeraire. It's not so much that she's scared; it's just suddenly dawned on her that she is missing quite a few important things right now in her classes. Her mother will be most displeased if word reaches her and Emily doesn't have a good explanation. Laurence sighs, as if they’re being impossible, but she glances at Temeraire and nods in agreement when he looks at her, both of their minds made up.
“Are you Captain Laurence?” one of the men calls, followed by what appears to be half the covert and more, as others spill out the doors towards them. “And the—the dragon, Temeraire?”
Laurence nods, stepping forward, and the man offers him a letter, a stunned expression on his face.
“I've come straight from London,” he manages, backing up as the aviators begin to form a ring around them. “Straight from London—Napoleon demands to see you, and your crew, and won't speak to another soul. You're to go straight to Paris, under a white flag of truce, and he has sworn to give Belgium back, if only you would speak with him.”
Laurence is silent, the clearing frozen, before he scrubs a hand over his face. Emily chances a look at Granby, who appears to be woefully unsurprised. She was not blind to the strange affection Napoleon had held for Laurence, and she supposes it does make sense that he, too, might retain memories.
“Well,” Laurence murmurs quietly, everyone leaning in ever so slightly to hear him. “I suppose we have our answer. We must get to Paris.”
***
The thing about Laurence, Granby knows from decades with the man, is that he loathes to put anyone to sword point, and loves to become the most hated man in the room all in one fell swoop.
The summons to Paris has not changed that.
“How did you get Roland to even agree to have Emily on?” he asks, when it's just the two of them awake, late in London, on the eve of their departure to Paris. Emily, the only other person from the covert to be allowed to come—something else that baffles him, since he has no idea how that was even persuadable to Lenton—is deep asleep, curled up next to Temeraire.
She's tiny, clearly a child, and not for the first time, Granby can't believe how far she's come—or how far, he supposes, she'll go. This whole travel of time confuses him, even though Temeraire has made an attempt at explanations at least six times over. He keeps falling back into Chinese, which doesn't help things, and Granby doesn't have the heart to tell him he doesn't remember most of the spoken language. He's only kept up with the written—it's been more than helpful in the years after.
Laurence sighs from where he's sitting, leaning back against Temeraire's leg.
“I don't believe it is truly just us,” he says, after a long moment of silence, the whistle of wind spilling through the eaves. “I think Roland and Lenton both know more than they ought, and I think they both know that I am close enough to the thing that may bring about the end of the war before it can truly begin.”
Granby sighs, kicking his legs out and patting at Temeraire's talon when the dragon grumbles low in his throat.
“It always has been you,” Temeraire says, sounding awfully put out about the fact; a far cry from the dragon who had wanted the notoriety the first time. “And I do not want to have to suffer as we did before—pray tell, Laurence, that you will wear the robes commissioned for you, or the fine gilted green coat, with the stamped buttons? It would not do to appear before Napoleon looking less than our best.”
“I know, my dear,” Laurence says, smiling faintly, petting his scales gently. “We shall do our utmost to appear as elegant as we can.”
Granby watches him for a long moment, taking in the ease of his shoulders as he tips back against his dragon, the soft smile he keeps on his face. The Laurence of before would not be nearly so sanguine.
“You aren't worried?” he finds himself asking, crossing boundaries he wouldn't have dared before their third year together. “That this is all a trap?”
Laurence blinks at him, as if startled, before he shakes his head, fumbling for his pockets. In the low amber light, his shadows cast soft grey smudges against the garden wall. For a moment, it's as if they’re back in the desert, shimmering mirages around them, before Laurence sits back and light illuminates his face.
“I apologize,” he says, offering him the worn sheaf of papers. “I thought I had mentioned—Tenzing will be there.” He pauses, smiling ruefully. “Of course, this is a trap.”
Granby takes the papers, skipping over the French and the slanted handwriting of Napoleon's scribe, before finding an odd offset paper at the end.
Worry not, Tharkay's letter reads in dashed-off Chinese. He would have captured me regardless, and this time, I am evidently more important.
Granby sighs, shuffling the papers back together and handing them over, even as his heart lightens at the thought of Tharkay greeting them.
“So,” he says instead, as Laurence tucks them away again. “That makes six, at least?”
“Demane,” Emily mumbles, and Granby glances over to see her peering at the two of them in the faint light. “He and Sipho.”
Granby doesn't argue, though he's not sure how she's positive, and can see Laurence bobbing his head in faint agreement.
“We will have to see, regardless,” he says, “As I'm sure we will be called upon to attend to relations in both, whether that be by the Crown's demand or by the Emperor's.”
Granby nods, lapsing into an odd sort of silence. He has traveled the world with them, has missed these quiet pieces, and the ease of falling in with people he trusts.
It hasn't been exceptionally hard, these past few years, since the war ended, but it hasn't been simple. He has persisted with his service, visiting with Laurence, Temeraire, and Tharkay when he can.
For a moment, he misses Iskierka so much he wonders if he is bleeding with it, before he remembers himself.
As if he's felt his melancholy, Temeraire stirs, his head drifting close enough to nudge against him. “And Iskierka,” Temeraire says. “She and Kulingile will remember, as they ought.” He sounds so certain that Granby lets himself believe it. He can't think about moving forward otherwise.
They're silent for another long moment, Emily falling back asleep in the quiet night, curling back up against Temeraire tightly.
Laurence reaches out, his movements gentle in the firelight, and pats his shoulder. It comforts him more than he expects, and he feels a slow release of tension as he tips his head towards Laurence.
“Rest,” Laurence murmurs, his eyes soft, his affection clear. Granby is glad to see it; that his ease he found in peacetime has carried forward somehow into this life. “It will all still be here in the morning.”
Granby lets the late hour do its work, his eyes sliding shut, one last glimpse of Laurence speaking softly to Temeraire before he drifts off.
***
Temeraire is not quite displeased with everything that's unfolded since he broke from his shell, but he's not quite content with the whole of it either. He can't say that he had remembered until fresh air had filled his lungs, and he had looked into the face of Laurence, who is still, and will forever be, so dear to him.
Laurence had started, shifting forward, breathing out a quiet Temeraire, and the rest had been history, both in familiarity and with everything he had remembered.
Memory, he thinks, is a strange thing. Time, though, is far stranger.
The ocean spreads beneath him, and it's all a familiar enough passage, crossing between Dover and Calais. He's made this trip many times, Laurence and Tharkay harnessed in. He's fought here too, but he buries those memories beneath the tinge of salt, under the swell of the waves he can see, white-tipped and sparkling below him.
That time is behind him, he assumes himself. The fighting is over, though he would not shy away from a skirmish or two.
Odder still, though, is the lack of command that he and Laurence hold. Granby and Emily had not hesitated to throw themselves into the thick of things, but none of the others had approached.
Granted, Laurence thinks that they may not know, but Temeraire finds that hard to imagine. Knowing is all he has now. He is flying with chains, even when he is the freest dragon from England.
And what a sorry state England is, as well. He has not thought much of the Government, even when he was in Parliament, but seeing the way the grounds started off is a sore sight for his eyes.
He can only hope that they can find a way to fix it faster than fighting in a war.
“Are you well, my dear?” Laurence calls, and Temeraire corrects his wing angle, even as Emily rattles off the need for it. “Pray tell me, if you need to dip down to the water.”
He turns his head, meeting Laurence's eyes and admiring the sheen of the sun off his golden hair, before he answers.
“I am well,” he says, his wings warming as an updraft pulls them higher. “I am flying with you, Laurence, how could I not be?”
Laurence closes his eyes, as if he's said some great unknown but precious thing, and Temeraire huffs, turning back to face forward again.
Humans are so strange.
He has the sky around him, and nearly all his favorite people safe aboard him, and they are going to see Paris and stop the war before it can begin—how can anything be better than this?
***
Tharkay is not expecting to be grabbed by Napoleon when he is finally ushered into his office, but Napoleon clearly thinks that they are bosom friends, as he rises from his chair to kiss both cheeks.
“Ah! Mister Tharkay, how kind you are to join me this afternoon—truly, I find myself in your debt, for presenting yourself to my guards. And to provide such help with contacting William, well, my gratitude cannot be overstated,” Napoleon murmurs, letting him go and perching on the back of his desk.
Tharkay doesn't say anything, even though that isn't quite how he would recount him being stolen from his bolthole in the middle of the night. And he had only added in that small letter for Will, no matter what Napoleon thinks.
He notes with no small amount of amusement that his Imperial Majesty seems nearly nervous that Will is arriving soon, before he remembers that he, too, doesn't know if Will remembers.
“I see you have come to the same conclusion as I have,” Napoleon says softly, seeing too much as always. “I cannot fathom a world in which Laurence is not a linchpin of remarkable things, and is this not one of the most remarkable things you have ever experienced?” He gestures around the room, at the sparkling chandeliers, the elegant furnishings. “Yesterday I was alone, with no one for company, and today I have found myself at the seat of power once more, with a war that is mine to win.”
Tharkay stiffens, ever so slightly, and relaxes just as quickly, but Napoleon still catches it, a sly smile tugging at his mouth. “You and I both know, Mister Tharkay, that Laurence is meant for more than abuse by the English crown, do we not? And yet, they send him here—under a banner of peace to be certain—but with no support?” He tsks, and Tharkay hates him anew for all the sense he has, even though he knows that this is also simply because the Crown does not know who Laurence is.
He also hates how he still knows how they will treat him, even when he is known—how cruel and fickle their regard can be.
Napoleon spreads his hands wide and shrugs. “But who am I to question the King's comme il faut? I am nothing more than an upstart, am I not?”
Tharkay keeps quiet, ignoring the way it seems to spark more interest in Napoleon, and waits for him to come to his point.
“I fear that I know more than enough of how to crush my opposition now,” Napoleon murmurs, as if it's just occurring to him. “But now that I know who I can have as well, it is a much more difficult decision. I have no use for a trained English spy in my cabinet, and yet, Laurence will be most upset if I discard you, will he not?”
He smiles at Tharkay, though Tharkay has no sense of what he's gotten from this odd half-conversation, and bobs his head.
“I trust you will be comfortable in Williams's rooms,” Napoleon says, a sly smile still on his face. “I look forward to seeing you again tomorrow, Mister Tharkay.”
***
Paris is a sight to be seen from above, which Laurence has guiltily always thought, and seeing it free from the war makes it all the more beautiful.
Crowds of people meander beneath as they soar above the chimneys and rooftops. Flags snap merrily in the wake of Temeraire's breeze where they hang from light post to light post, and even as they move swiftly overhead, Laurence can hear the cheerfully babbling of people, which is oddly comforting. It's a small reminder that it is not just for themselves, that they are here in Paris, but also for the innocents who do not deserve to be sentenced to such a bloody war.
The streets are not wide enough for most dragons and people, but even now, he can see the effort beginning to be made. Napoleon has clearly made headway already in his commands, and Laurence wonders if Lien will even have a true effect on the war this time around—if there even is to be one.
Granby touches his arm, and he can feel Emily hovering right behind him. It’s an odd sense to be back in the thick of things when he has spent the last half-decade out of the line of fire for the most part. He has not missed the way that they both are too protective by half, to say nothing of how Temeraire already is.
Unfamiliar dragons circle around them, an honor guard of sorts, and guide them down to the bright green lawn that's resplendently decorated at the edge of the river.
Tharkay is standing next to Napoleon, no expression on his face as Temeraire circles overhead once before softly landing.
There's hardly a moment's pause before Temeraire is tipping slightly, adjusting so that his full length can be seen easily, the beginning of his ruff flaring out, and for a moment, everything pauses, all of the Emperor’s aides and guards staring at the odd set of people before them.
Breaking the silence, Laurence hides an unwanted smile as Napoleon obliges Temeraire and applauds, well aware that the applause is not just for his dragon; he’s fairly certain a good portion of it is for him as well, based on the look the Emperor slides his way.
“Bravo, Temeraire,” Napoleon says, as Temeraire straightens, preening slightly before he helps the three of them down. “It is immensely good to see you in Paris again, no? How lovely, to see you all—and yet, such a sparse crew?” He tips his head, a smile on his face. “How strange to send you so bare to me!”
Temeraire huffs, but keeps quiet even as his wings ruffle uncomfortably. His lack of crew is a sore spot that Laurence is not surprised to see that his majesty has already picked up on. Dragons are notoriously possessive, after all, and to have them arrive as only three speaks of how strange things have rapidly become.
Laurence straightens his coat, bowing slightly before he glances at Tharkay, to find the other man already watching him. There’s no sign of mistreatment, and he lets himself relax slightly.
“You are too kind, your Imperial Highness,” he says, ignoring Napoleon's underlying smugness and the way he watches them with satisfaction. “On behalf of the Crown and the King, we thank you for the invite to parlay.”
“So formal,” Napoleon says, chidingly, before he strides forward, seizing Laurence by his shoulders to press two quick kisses to his cheeks. “As if we are not going to make history, Captain Laurence.”
He turns to Granby, whom Laurence isn’t surprised to see stiffen, and presses two kisses upon his cheeks as well. “And you, Captain Granby—oh, I apologize, please forgive me for misspeaking— Lieutenant Granby, I hope you shall feel most welcome here.”
He pauses, his blows neatly dealt, and turns to Emily. Laurence almost starts at the glare Emily is leveling at Napoleon; he will be having words with her about how to properly greet the Emperor later.
“Miss Roland,” Napoleon says after a moment of studying her. Laurence feels like he isn’t even breathing as he watches the odd standoff between the two of them. He cannot for the life of him remember if they’ve met before, and he is rapidly regretting not asking her for her thoughts, but to interrupt would be unspeakably rude, despite the clear upset in her eyes. “Your utter loyalty is commendable, my dear. I can only hope that it stays true in this turbulent time as you stay in beautiful Paris.”
Emily blinks at him as if he is utterly absurd. “Temeraire and Captain Laurence are worth following around the world twice over,” she says, her voice unwaveringly clear in the quiet green. “I have never hesitated.”
Napoleon beams at her, as if she has answered some question he had, and offers her his hand to shake. She takes it, even as she looks like she would rather expire, but Napoleon laughs as though she is delightful.
“Paris is very nice,” Temeraire says, breaking the tense atmosphere as he glances about. “I see that you have already started the improvements for dragons.”
Napoleon nods, dismissing his guards with a wave, his aides melting away to the shadows of the Tuileries Palace. “I have much to speak with all of you about,” he says, glancing between them all as Tharkay steps forward as well. “Come,” he commands, though he only looks at Laurence, who feels a familiar tug of something at his bones as he speaks. “Walk with me.”
***
Napoleon is exceedingly pleased as he guides his odd little group of ducklings down the path, his guards anxiously following behind.
He will have to let them close tonight, to make up for the affront he has caused when he had laughed about their worries with William Laurence.
Ha! As if Laurence is not a man of honor so great that it nearly immobilizes him to do nothing more than the right thing. It would be boring if it weren't so refreshing, especially when the right thing so often aligns with what he wants.
It is equally as enticing when he sets aside his honor and wages war as though he is crafted for it. Napoleon is not unaware of just who was behind his departure from the isle, and what it meant for the war at large. If he can turn away from England, if he can reshape his cause—why he can think of no reason for Laurence not to help him.
He cannot help it if he, too, sees the plight of the dragons as a worthy cause. How fortuitous that it will bring them together as he resets the very boundaries of what Europe can be.
His meager crew as well—Captain Laurence finds himself in such odd, handsome company that Napoleon also cannot help to stop and think on how to bring them all together and keep them here.
Even the child—so fiercely protective!—is a delight, with her low glare and drawn face. He has not had someone be so belligerent and not attempt to murder him in quite some time.
No matter, he has time to think. Time to plot.
After all, time has been respun, has it not? And it shall all be for the glory of the empire, for the good of the world, that he seizes these years and remakes history.